
Class, 
Book. 






PRESENTED EW 



dcUx "T^^. ^ •^^"WvCrvUi 




B. E. FURNflS. 



Poe4iAs 



of 



HGCirt and HomG 



By B. c. riiriuis 






Columbus, Ohio 
1595 






P 



•••• • ••• 

•:::i4 



Untrobuction. 



BOYD EDWIN FURNAS did not seek to 
enroll himself among the "immortal 
bards." His poems, written at odd inter- 
vals, and upon many subjects, are not all col- 
lected here, for many of his first efforts in versi- 
fications were burned and are thus lost. He was 
a poet of the people and his verses have found a 
lodgment in the hearts of his friends for whom he 
wrote rather than for the world and the critics. 
In this little volume have been gathered some of 
the lays that reached the hearts of those friends 
and pleased the many. Mr. Furnas was born 
near Pleasant Hill, Ohio, June 21, 1848, and 
died June 2, 1897. His early life was spent 
on a farm, where he learned to love nature 
and to write of her. He became in early 
life an artist of merit and, besides, wrote for 
many of the foremost papers and magazines of 
the country, his contributions being always wel- 
come. In 1879 he married Miss Ida May Mor- 
rill, of N. H. One son came to bless this union. 



In 1889 he was elected Auditor of Miami county, 
Ohio, and was re-elected in 1892, and continued 
until January 1, 1896, when he resigned to ac- 
cept the chief clerkship in the Auditor of State's 
office under the administration of W. H. Guii- 
bert. He sought health and pleasure in many 
lands and, inspired by the scenes he saw, gave 
vent to his enthusiasm in verse. As has been 
said before, he did not aspire to anything noted 
in poetry. He had no ambition to soar to the 
altitude attained by the great poets of our later 
day. He was content to sing for those nearest 
and dearest to him, and their appreciation of his 
efforts was reward enough for him. 

The poems came from the heart of an humble 
singer and as such will go out into the world. 
Mr. Furnas was imbued with the spirit of poetry 
and wrote as the muse dictated. His poems are 
grave and light. He touched nearly every sub- 
ject, and in his prose, as in his poetry, he was 
painstaking and sincere. He loved art in all its 
ramifications; he was a devotee of true verse and 
from the spring of poetry drew his inspiration. 
We ask for this little book a kind reception, as 
it contains the work of "one who loved his fellow- 
men" and who, had he lived, might have sung in 
loftier numbers. 



ir misseC* lJ)ou in l^ouv Dreams. 

I know not if thy lovely eyes 

Fill ever with sad tears 
While thinking o'er the thoughts that come 

O'er wastes of vanished years; 
But this I know, you told me so, 

I kissed you in your dreams; 
You told me, love, when last we met 

I kissed you in your dreams. 

Your thoughts were then of me, my own, 

Your thoughts were then of me, 
Though lonely I have wandered far 

Across the surging sea; 
Remembrance comes in sweetest guise 

And lingers, so it seems; 
You told me, love, when last we met 

I kissed you in your dreams. 

You told me that I kissed you, love. 

Yes, kissed you in your dreams, 
But never once did mention it 

To kiss me back, it seems; 
But I kissed you in your dreams, love, 

Yes, kissed you then, you say. 
You told me, love, when last we met, 

I kissed and — went away. 
5 



Chorus: 

Kissed you in your dreams, love, 
Kissed you in your dreams; 

You told me, love, when last we met 
I kissed you in your dreams. 
6 



Sabbest Ubouobts. 

Through the dark lonely aisles of Memory's halls 

Strange, strange are the thoughts that flit by, 
Like the ghosts of the moor in spectral light, 

They appear for a moment and die; 
Some have the presage of deep, untold woe, 

Some the fortune that's hard to win; 
But the saddest of all, and the one that haunts 
most, 

Is the thought that "it might have been." 

Some the changeful hues of sunset own. 

Others again look very sad, 
While some are crowned with purple and gold 

And yet they are never glad; 
But the thought that hovers around us most 

And we shuddering dread it when 
With cold, cruel fingers our heartstrings it sweeps 

Is the thought that "it might have been." 

It might have been, ah! yes, it might have been, 

Why, the words themselves are a dirge, 
Breathing an olden wailing story 

Almost stopping life's mighty surge; 
But 'tis better far to have loved some one, 

Even though you do not win. 
Than to have never known its joys and pains, 

Though your thoughts are: "it might have 
been." 



It might have been, ah! what we dare not think,,. 

But then first loves are seldom wed; 
We are all changed and life indeed is not 

What we planned it ere hope had fled ; 
And in the change perhaps a life is wrecked 

But, then, God judges for us best; 
And helps us do our duty and not shrink, 

To heaven we must trust the rest. 
8 



September domino. 

Sweet September, dear September, 

How I think and dream of thee. 
And a maiden I remember 

Joyous, happy, light and free; 
How I met her in the sweet-time 

Wand'ring by the clear brook side, 
And her merry peals of laughter 

Sent their echo far and wide. 

How her jaunty hat kept twirling 

Round her taper finger fair, 
And her golden hair swept curling 

O'er a lovely shoulder bare; 
Fondled by the gladsome zephyrs 

Every feature; was it rude 
Thus to kiss the gentle maiden, 

Trusting to her gentle mood? 

Softest zephyr, how I long to 

Be familiar as thyself. 
That I might kiss the maiden you 

Have kissed, you thievish elf; 
Then I'd whisper how I love her 

In the lowest, sweetest words. 
And I'd praise that voice so silvery 

Ah, it rivals e'en the birds. 
9 



Bonny maiden, I would give thee 

All the world, did I possess, 
In return, thus, I would pray thee 

For one loosing, fond caress; 
Had I empires, had I kingdoms, 

I would cast them at thy feet. 
Just to claim, although unworthy, 

Thy dear self, my love, my sweet. 

I would strive to be more noble, 

I would thank Thee, God above, 
I would cast away all foibles 

If He'll give me thy pure love; 
And I thank thee, gentle maiden, 

For the sweetest boon in life, 
And I'd love thee aye and ever 

Sweetheart, could I call thee wife. 
10 



THE COTTAGE BOY'S SONG. 

O'er emerald fields the sunlight falls 
And softly on the snow-white walls, 

Of Furnia's cottage shines; 
And there beneath the breath of June 
The honeysuckle's gay festoons 

And multiflora twine. 

And from a sweet, embowering joy, 
Pride of the humble cottage boy. 

Who now to thee so bold, 
Beneath the magic of a name 
Presumes in loving words proclaim 

A story ne'er grown old. 

And who is he to fame unknown 

Who dares his challenge thus throw down 

Low at thy feet in joy? 
He holds no proud, suspicious stand 
Among the magnates of the land — 

A simple country boy. 

As when he roamed a careless child 
To pluck the forest blossoms wild, 

Oft climbed some rugged brow 
Of rock or clift, to gather there 
Some floweret that looked more than fair 

Than all that bloomed below. 
11 



So now, like Eve in Paradise, 

Tho' numerous off'rings round him rise, 

Maud Joclyn's love command — 
Maud Joclyn's, whose sweet, infant eyes 
Are bright as Indiana's skies. 

My school-book's sunset land. 

And well my heart responds to-day 
And willingly its chords obey 

The words of friendship bland; 
With many a sober blessing fraught 
I'd give them all for one kind thought — 

One line from your dear hand. 

Long will I deem that winning smile 
But a mere mockery to beguile 

Some lonely hour of care; 
And will my sweet Maud prove to be 
But like some legend o'er the sea, 

A creature of the air? 

Like that fair plant of India's fields 

Which most when bruised and broken yields 

Its fragrance on the air. 
Such is the heart I ofifer thee, 
Pride of the country's maidens. See? 

Oh, is it worth thy care? 
12 



Xcouota. 

Down where by the gurgUng stream 

You and I in youthful dreami 
Musingly so often stood, Leonota, 

Gazing at the far-ofif skies 

Kissed by clouds of changeful dies; 

Lost our souls in wonder grand, 

Searching for the spirit land. 
Silent in the solemn wood, Leonota. 

Chorus: 

O Leonota, Leonota, 

Tho' thy form to others be not fair 
To these loving eyes thou wert fairer than the sky^ 

]^.Iy dusky, darling maiden, Leonota; 
Thou wert fairer than these skies to my loving eye 

j\Iy dark-haired Indian maiden, Leonota. 

Now these clouds of changeful dies 

As they drift across the skies 
Seem to mock me in my sorrow, Leonota; 

Gone thou art; an unseen hand 

Took thee to that spirit land. 

And thy footsteps by the stream 

Where I wait for thee and dream 
Lead me only back to-morrow, Leonota. 
13 



Chorus: 

Little recked the mystic hand 
Soon would waft to spirit land. 

My dusky wild-wood maiden, Leonota; 
Take the queen of mountain glen 
Heart care of Win-a-ton-ken, 
Leave him weary with his woe, 
Aching- hearts the angels know, 

For his soul is heavy-laden, Leonota. 

There beneath the opal skies 
Often gazed at by thy eyes, 

When we were young and happy, Leonota 
There my bow and quiver now 
Hang upon that broken bough. 
And the songs the song-birds sing 
As they speed upon the wing. 

Thrill with a mournful tongue, Leonota. 

Chorus: 

O Leonota, Leonota, 

Perhaps thy form to all was fair. 

To my loving eyes 

Thou wert dearer than the skies, 
Laughter-loving, loyal-laden Leonota-; 

Thou wert fairer than those skies 

To these ever burning eyes. 
My musing mountain maiden. Leonota. 
14 



H)e6i&eratum. 

Wandering the sweet fields over 
I met a maid waist deep in clover; 
"What", said I, "sweet maiden rover, 
Your desire?" Quoth she: "A lover." 

Upon a youth I chanced to come 
Who on Life's pathway trudged alone, 
Without a moment's thought said: "Some 
True sweetheart and a happy home." 

I met a bride of but a sun 

And gently put the question; 

She frankly gave opinion 

That true she'd have her chosen one. 

A wife with look of woe and pain 
Whose better-half was bent on gain ; 
Her eager answer quickly came 
"Kind words, a child to bear his name." 

A mother's form I next did see, 
Whose face was full of charity; 
Her fondest wish alone could be: 
"Only my darlings to love me." 

A gadding female, fashion's shrew, 
Whom dainty robes about her drew; 
She sneering said: "Some dresses new, 
Some things about my neighbors, too." 
15 



A journalist I saw, whose name 
Thought he alone afar would flame 
In golden sign, in sparkling frame 
Of gems about the one word: "Fame." 

Across his brow a blood-red crease 

A soldier wore, his sword and lease 

Of life long borne, said: "Wars should cease,. 

The bravest soldier wants but peace." 

A politician sage and great 
Who sought high place, himself elate, 
Of honest statesmanship did prate : 
"I want to steer the ship of State." 

I met a vagrant of the town, 
His raiment rags, his features brown; 
He said to me with scowl and frown: 
"The world a living owes my crown." 

An old man next upon his stave 
Was leaning as he answer gave: 
"Four score years I've been life's slave, 
I pine for rest and decent grave." 

An angel just from heaven's hall 
I questioned, if he knew God's call: 
He spread his wings and this let fall:. 
"Peace on earth, good will to all." 
16 



XTbe Xost part^. 

(a parody.) 

Gaily bedight, 
A gallant knight, 

A Democratic hearty, 
Had struggled long. 
With a greenback song. 

To sing to a greenback party. 

But he grew old, 
This knight so bold. 

And o'er his heart a "shaddy" 
Fell as he saw 
Sam Tilden's claw 

Take down the greenback "paddy. 

And as his strength 
Failed him at length. 

He met a pilgrim hearty; 
"Alas", said he, 
"Where can it be 

That Sam will take our party?" 

"Over the mountains 
Of the moon, 

Down the Valley of Astarte, 
Ride, boldly ride." 
The "Rad" replied, 

"And there you'll find your party." 
17 



You have upon my form old Time 

Another twelve months set, 
With here and there a memory 

That I would fain forget; 
The earth doth beam in summer's dream 

For me in pregnant fate, 
The whippoorwill is whistling still, 

And I am thirty-eight. 

And where I've been, and what I've learned 

In all those years of life! 
"That man 'gainst brother man must wage 

And everlasting strife"; 
Yet I'm not told, I'm growing old, 

Erect I walk and straight; 
At elbow now. Time with a bow 

Is whispering: "Thirty-eight." 

"Come in, old chap. There, close the blind. 
And spend some time with me; 
'Tis twelve month since you came before, 

No familiarity." 
Your locks are gray as that first day. 

As awkward is your gait, 
Your scythe as sharp. What, at me carp? 
Mind, I'm but thirty-eight. 
18 



Say, tyrant Time, if you were young 

I'd with you cross a score; 
That bhie-eyed lass I used to court, 

(Your blade is dripping gore) 
Don't mention her, you scurvy cur, 

Tho' old, I'll crack your pate. 
For with that blade you slew my maid 

When she was ten and eight. 

Be carehil. Time, that keen edge cut 

Too close my good right hand, 
Don't swing it round so recklessly. 

Your glass may lose its sand ; 
When you did flare? I knocked it there, 

Perhaps importunate, 
You are, I see, too much for me, 

For I'm but thirty-eight. 

Stay, aged friend, and let us chat, 

Sure me you do not fear. 
Into my thoughts you seldom come 

More than but once a year; 
'Pon yonder mail your blade can brail 

And let it with us wait. 
Yours is, 'tis said, the oldest head. 

For I'm but thirty-eight. 
19 



The world's full praise perhaps you'll find 

Not entered in your lists; 
Where craven selfishness holds reign 

Small gratitude exists ; 
But then you know 'tis ever so, 

This life is but a strait, — 
'Tween it and death there's but a breath 

Till one and thirty-eight. 

What, going? Then, good-bye, old Time, 

A friend you are, no doubt ; 
I have not found a silver hair, 

They are perhaps en route, 
You've brought few tears, some joyous years. 

Some shadow and sunshine; 
A year this day I hope you may 

Mark me down thirty-nine. 
20 



Cobtown ilBrown. 

About his fields went farmer Brown 

To view his well-worn acres o'er; 
He lived just back of old Cobtown 

Where lived his father years before; 
'Twas Sabbath morn, o'er waving corn 

The cawing crows were on their way, 
To hold their school down by the pool 

Where Stony Brook doth end its play. 

The old log barn, now weather-worn, 

Dilapidated, racked and frail. 
Built when necessity was born. 

Nor knew the sound of aught but flail; 
How long before his father bore 

With sturdy neighbors good and true, 
From trees that sentinelled the wood 

The timber in it, no one knew. 

Beside a stone his rustv plow 

Upturns its share to ether blue; 
His self-rake under neighboring bough 

Was old before his notes were due: 
About his sheds in mould'ring beds 

Lay many tons of dead manure; 
His sodden fields scarce nothing yield 

But tax his mind beyond endure. 
21 



His stock is thin, one sees their ribs, 

Some twenty rods away or more; 
The Norway rats boycot his cribs 

Because he lays not up a store; 
Too poor the cow for any low, 

Too lean the pig for decent swine; 
No horses neigh for scented hay, 

But do their best on wild pea-vine. 

Brown shakes his head and looks around 

And views a desolating scene, 
He sees dire poverty al)ound 

Where fertile fields once might have been; 
"It seems quite plain in shine or rain 

These fields refuse their wealth to give. 
And taxes so do higher grow, 

I scarcely raise enough to live. 

"I've worked as hard, the good Lord knows, 

As any man about Cobtown, 
As strong and sturdy were my blows, 

(None will deny that, farmer Brown) 
I rose not late, nor quit at eight. 

I've saved and scrimped and hired no help; 
Yet had I been like other men 

I'd not be called 'that poor old whelp.' 
22 



"I fell behind, and knew not why, 

And laid for chance to make it back, 
One evil day there did pass by 

A sleek-tongued agent dressed in black; 
For Bohemian oats he took my notes 

And sold them to my neighbor Payne, 
And in the bank mv cash did plank 

For that infernal swindling- orain. 



ti f-. 



"Across the way lives neighbor Hall 

Who's rich in fertile lands to till, 
He wedded Miss Arminta Gaul, 

The belle of Terry's new Toolville; 
A fortune good she brought — and blood, 

One child to bind the marriage vow, 
A dainty maid so proud and staid 

She'd scarcely to my gray hairs bow. 

"They tell me that young Alan Mills, 

A knowing lad as e'er I saw. 
Six hundred wagon loads he fills 

With barn manure afield to draw; 
He spread it free o'er clover lea 

And turns it under in the Spring; 
Scime sunny morn he plants his corn — 

Thinks that's the way the cash to bring. 



"A half a century ago 

I raised the biggest crops around' 
The neighborhood was all aglow 

With praises of my fertile ground ; 
No needy poor came to my door 

And went away with empty hand; 
At twenty-one my youngest son 

And mother joined the angel band. 

"And since that day there seems to grow 

Something uncanny o'er my work; 
No matter what I will to do, 

The tardy crops will always shirk; 
Our youngsters then were little men. 

Their might they gave to every crop; 
Our daughters too did all they knew 

To fill the pail, the spigot stop. 

"My children now have grown and gone^ 

One married and one went to sea, 
Two dear ones in the churchyard lone 

Their graves neglected e'en by me; 
My dear old farm and good right arm 

Alike now feel the weight of years; 
This Sabbath morn among the corn 

'Tis hard to check the pressing tears."' 
24 



The springs of youth for him ran dry- 
Eternal Hope took wings and fled, 

He heard the whirl of Progress nigh 
But sturdily hung down his head; 

He'll tread no more Youth's vernal shore 
That time for him forever spent; 

Put out the blaze of other days 

When fond desires and Hope were blent. 

O worn-out form, O wasteful man. 

The times have sped away from you, 
Such pace you Avould not keep and span 

With breadth of mind and length of view; 
His sands most run, his work most done, 

Too honest, true and good was Brown 
For earthly use and world's abuse. 

He waits the angels in Cobtown. 
25 



^ecrscbaumtc. 

(to t. c. h.) 

Many a picture I have seen 

In azure frames unrolling. 
Many a sad, sad "might have been" 

Steals in beyond controlling. 

Adown the aisles of Memory's halls 
In sunny niches that were, Tom, 

I've caught and placed upon the walls 
Sweet pictures from my meerschaum. 

I've dreamed myself in far-off lands 
Beneath the Orient skies, Tom, 

Where boundless oceans wash the sands 
Of the country of the "chies", Tom. 

I've supped beside the moss-grown walls 

Of cafes in Caledonia, 
In dreams I've trod the sainted halls 

Of pompous Babylonia. 

Beneath the roofs of old Stamboul 

In fancy I have dined there, 
And smoked with Turks the scented bowl 

As I on my couch reclined there. 
26 



Beside the moonlit mosques of Spain 

By vine-clad, fair Madeira, 
O'er Arabia's sterile plain 

And ice-locked cold Siberia; 

From the great celestial wall 
To the simoon-cursed Sahara, 

From the region of the Gaul 
To the one beyond Bokara; 

Aye, from the sunny banks of Rhine 
To the bright, meandering Po, 

My fancies bask in deep sunshine, 
And wandering still they go. 

On and on to a better land 
Beyond the reach of mortal, 

Where pearly gates and angel band 
Are hid by golden portal;. 

Be sure I'm loth to say good-bye 
To friend so dear; 'tis churlish; 

What, doth a tear steal in my eye? 
Avaunt, thou sign so girlish! 

Quite often, Tom, thy face is seen, 
The smoke rings round it scattered; 

Is that ill omen now, I ween? 

Shall all my dreams be shattered? 
27 



JSaiTiers. 

Between thy life and my life 

Rngged, steep, resistless barriers rise, 
Day after day they show a sterner front, 
Uplifted toward our skies; 

Shutting thee out from me, 
Like a fierce November rain 
Ofttimes there conies a blinding sheet of pain, 
But through the thickest cloud I know 
The sun will shine again. 

Between thy life and my life 

Sullen, cold and cruel waters roll, 
Beneath their waves Hope's barks are wrecked 
Long ere they reach their goal; 
Yet in the quiet deep 
Though bright stars may wane, 
Hope's anchor holds with its golden chain, 
Binding our hearts that else would drift away 
Upon a sea of pain. 

Between thy life and my life 

Stretches afar a wide and dreary plain. 
Across its waste we gaze with longing eyes, 
My heart cries to thine in vain; 
The echoes answer back 
28 



Through all the weary day: 
"In vain! in vain!" So I turn away 
With one long, shiv'ring sigh of agony 
In loneliness to stray. 

Between my life and thy life 

The hand of fate has woven some bright 
threads 
Whose glitt'ring radiance thro' these lonelv days 
A steadfast lustre sheds; 
Yet parted tho' we be, 
Tho' thy sun for me shall never shine. 
These golden fibers shall our hearts entwine 
In sweetness of soulful sympathy, 
Blending thy life and mine. 
29 



iKi^ XHnclc's iDream. 

My uncle sat in his easy chair, 

His eyes were closed as sleeping, 
He dreamed the dreams of other days, 

His heart their rythm keeping; 
Some were round and full of joy — 

And some were fraught with sorrow, 
But all were of the by-gone days. 

Not one was of the morrow. 

He dreams of the blinding star of hope 

Which shone so grandly o'er him. 
The ignis fatuus of early youth 

That whirling went before him; 
The trance of love, the glow of earth, 

The brilliant, painted future. 
The chase for wealth, all, all were bound 

In golden tinted suture. 

He dreams where youth's aml^ition sat 

Enthroned in stately l)Ower, 
Of which but of the world to ask 

For honors, place and power; 
Alas! this dream too many find 

Is doomed to fall in shallows, 
For time will lay ambition low 

And place it in his fallows. 

oO 



He dreams of hopes that long are dead, 

Yet ne'er grown sere and callow, 
That brought from heaven a fragrant rose. 

To him a bitter aloe; 
Three-score or more of years ago 

It was a constant pleasure 
To follow hope like a twirling rope 

In her long and tireless measure. 

He dreams of a life which might have been 

Temptingly spread before him, 
But a sea of fate with its fearful tide 

Remorselessly swept o'er him; 
When youth is robbed of a sentiment 

To heart's best tendrils clinging, 
Stern selfishness will often set 

Love's death-bells fiercely ringing. 

A tress of hair, a faded rose, 

A ring all worn and dingy 
No mine of w-eailth can purchase these, 

Yet people call him stingy; 
He sees a blue-eyed maiden fair 

And her wealth of golden tresses 
Who in his arms breathed out one night 

Her soul 'neath love's caresses. 
31 



He does not dream of wealth of heart 

Or the good he's done to others; 
Whate'er his right hand sought to do 

With this he seldom bothers; 
lie dreams not of the gold he's made, 

For this has been life's tower; 
All, all he'd give and deem it fair 

For one sweet youthful hour. 

Yes. dream those dreams of other days. 

You may some comfort borrow; 
There's little in this world for you, 

Take heed not of the morrow; 
The dreams of youth, the cares of life. 

Old age as sere as leather; 
Those days will never come again 

No matter what the weather. 
32 



Zbc Xoom of Xite. 

Tho' we peacefully be sleeping, 

There's in life's loom no pause, 
And the pattern which was weaving 

When night her curtain draws; 
Tho' the shuttle standeth still. 

Yet upon the morrow 
The fair designs wath joy may fill 

Or be filled with sorrow; 
'Tis all the same at work or play, 

Or worry, if we must. 
This loom of life will weave away 

Till we shall turn to dust. 

The rusty spot upon the blade 

Is worry of the frame; 
Friction more than motion made 

The faithful engine lame; 
'Tis but very little bother 

To let worry all alone; 
Let the shipwreck of another 

Be the sea-mark of your own. 
Don't fret about your neighbor dear, 

His soul you cannot save; 
A short and pithy sermon there 

Is in every grave. 
83 



Irresolution never yet 

Was known to win a race; 
The meanest thief will always set 

Some virtue in his face; 
Substantial riches of the mind 

Are rare good qualities, 
And goodly breeding all will find 

Sets every one at ease; 
Good humor is the sweet blue span 

For souls enraptured born; 
Man's treatment of his fellow man 
"Makes countless thousands mourn." 

But Virtue has her own reward, 

Tlio' Justice "goes it blind"; 
'The pen is mightier than the sword" 

When with the press combined; 
From life's web of joy and pain 

Some good in warp and woof, 
Tho' sorrow's bitter, bitter rain 

May patter on the roof; 
The soul may cry aloud to God, 

The chain may be awry. 
But after all beneath the sod 

Awaits futurity. 
34 



Xlbe painter. 

No poet yet has penned the lay, 

Nor songster sung the melody, 

Nor planted on eternal knolls 

Such precious gems for stirring souls ; 

Shakespeare, Milton failed to reach 

The charm which Raphael, Titian teach; 

To these a thankful race will give 

The fairest place in thought to live; 

Shine out their works the fairest found 

"On Fame's eternal camping ground." 
35 



Us tbere a Xanb? 

Is there a land where friendships never 

Turn aside for love of gold? 
Is there a land where naught can sever 

Hearts that side by side grow old? 

Is there a land where naught's unholy? 

Where dwell no falsehood or deceit? 
Is there a land where none are lowly 

Taught to bow at another's feet? 

Is there a land where no pure love dies, 
And holy ties are never riven? 

Is there a land where sweet mercy flies 
Unto those who have mercy given? 

Is there a land where life's sweet river 
Flows smoothly by the crystal shore? 

Is there a land where the Great Giver 
Takes not away a love of yore? 

Is there a land devoid of sorrow 
Waiting for the weary soul? 

Is there a land where there's no morrow 
When the repentant reach their goal? 

Is there a land where pure hearts turn not 
From the paths of right revealed? 

Is there a land where love doth yearn not 
To be cold, to love once sealed? 
36 



Is there a land where seraphs tender 
Comfort bring to child of Eve? 

Is there a land where naught can render 
Pure the words that now deceive? 

If such a land exists pray tell me, 
Ye winged angels bright and fair; 

And in recompense I'll give thee 
All my hopes that land to share. 



TLbc Xittle jfarmer. 

Sprinkle, sprinkle, gentle rain, 
Come and sprout my tardy grain; 
Sift, you rain drops, sift away, 
Glad to see you every day. 

The harrows and the drills are done. 
And my old boots are nearly run; 
My corn has grown almost an inch, 
Sowing barley in this pinch. 

I've worked my horses pretty thin 
Tryin' to get my barley in. 
So give us plenty rain to-day. 
And let them nibble at their hay. 

What, three days' steady pouring rain? 
Blast the luck, you'll down my grain! 
'Twas growing nicely till vou fell, 
Now the truth I'm bound to tell. 

Drippin', drippin', mighty rain, 
Darn your hide, you've spoiled my grain; 
Stop your fallin' and get clear. 
You've rained enough to last a year. 



And lo! there comes a morn when Nature 

From her vigils creep, 
As if God, love-dreaming and benignant. 

Smiled in His sleep. 

With pleasing signs of budding promise 

From an April day 
Comes mild-eyed, perfumed-ladened 

Happy, blooming May. 

One day I note a subtle softness 

Gathering in the air, 
The next a fringe of pendant catkins 

From that poplar fair. 

Waxy, creamy, emerald tints 

Delicately show 
Again upon the pine's trim needles 

I trace a softer glow. 

Then bloom the buckeye and the maple, 
The oak so strong and staunch; 

The green plumes of the sweet flag wave 
By the old spring branch. 

Putting forth their tender shootlets near 
The fragrant spear-mint plot, 

Just aback the rise grow Sweet William 
And the forget-me-not. 
39 



Sweet daffodils and dandelions 

In old g-old are seen; 
On the far hills the turf is gathering. 

An opalescent green. 

The low glitter of the blood-root's bloom: 

Over in the hollow, 
The golden vapors of opening leaves 

On some vagrant willow. 

The fragrance fair of unseen flowers 

Wafted out the heather 
Tells me sweet May has come, and past 

Is April weather. 

40 



(Brown (3ra^ in (Brief. 

The night with black wings is hov'ring round, 

Oh, how the sad sobbing winds moan; 
They're moaning a dirge for one in the ground. 

And my broken heart's throbbing sad tone ; 
My once happy hopes are bhghted and gone, 

My future Hfe blasted and dead, 
The heart in my bosom weighs like a stone. 

And gray hairs are crowning my head. 

Ah, once I was happy and blithe and gay 

And dreamed not of trouble and care. 
As the beautiful maid in the city to-day, 

And the big strong world did I dare; 
But now I'm a stranger to every one's home. 

No friends have I left to greet, me 
When travel stained, weary and dying I come 

To the land that gave birth unto me. 

I've wandered beneath the tropical sun, 

I've travelled from pole unto pole,. 
But ne'er 'neath the skies have I met but the one 

I loved with my heart and my soul; 
And that one to me proved so false and untrue. 

It made me an exile for life. 
And sent me to wander the cruel world through 

To deal witth its follies and strife. 
41 



I've grown gray in grief, for the mother who died 

And was buried while I was away, 
The very last link that bound me to the tide 

Of the faces I meet on my way; 
They tell me she died with a prayer on her lips 

For her wandering, wayward son. 
And as from her brow the cold death dew drips 

She prays for the treacherous one. 

She sent up a prayer to the just God above, 

A mother's sweet prayer, they say, 
A prayer for the creature who blighted my love 

And caused me to roam far away. 
She asked of that God, the Great Ruler of Light, 

To change that treacherous one's heart. 
To point unto her the love she did blight, 

This to me did the strange lips impart. 

Ah, little you recked, fond mother most dear, 

That the one for whom you have prayed 
Is leading to-day — sweet angels bend near — 

A life of foul sin and degrade; 
I loved her, I loved her, I cannot forget 

Her beauty, her grace and her youth; 
And believe in my soul I still love her yet 

Although she has fallen from truth. 
42 



Souvenirs. 

Souvenirs! harmless, inanimate things; 

Yet saved, gentle remembrances 

Of past cloudless, full happier days 

Than many which have cast shades and lights 

Athwart the opal tinted canopy 

Of our not entirely useless lives; 

Days in which lovely images swept 

Like the swift shifting, many colored 

Figures of a phantasmagoria. 

Days in which nature's sweet threnodies, 

Striking into the soul, have induced 

A devotion akin to worship. 

Every one filled with glorious souvenirs 

Too dearly sacred for rehearsal; 

Each one a cherished tie, binding 

Life's bundle with bands of purest gold; 

We tremble with sweet awe to know life holds 

Such bright sun-rises, such moons of gold 

That gray night ne'er o'ershadows them. 

Among my keep-sakes is a half blown rose, 

Faded, withered, its subtle perfume 

Scarcely more than faint remembrance; 

Yet, faint though it be, it calls to mind 

A thought o'erlapping vanished years, 

Of a bright, joyous day long past, 
43 



When a gentle maid beside me stood, 
And with trembHng fingers arranging 
And placing it, with a shy, sweet smile, 
On the bosom of my surtout, bidding 
Me wear it for the day, as a signet 
Of my fealty to the donor. 

But nearest, dearest of all to me 
Is now a simply tarnished medal, 
On the smooth parts of the side whereon 
The portrait is, a date engraved with 
A penknife, dimly chronicles 
The loved initials of its giver, 
And the time and place of its giving. 
It dates the very first impressions 
Of two young hearts for each other born, 
And is now the mightiest talisman 
Of a love grown mightier than death. 
44 



IResicjuation. 

The bright thread which tangles itself among 
The frayed warp and woof of our Hves is unstrung. 

Drift our hearts upon a sea of pain. 
Oh, whilst yet room in life for warning — 
Why did naught upon that awful morning 

Tell the fate in store ere 'twas in vain? 
Not less than thine is my grief, dear sister, 

O'er the fair form so lately laid away, 
And the rain of tears that now do blister 
My eyes fall in anger as in grief to-day 

At God's mysterious ways. 

A God whom all devout believers say 
Protects and guides our footsteps day by day, 

From childhood's way wards the shafts of 
harm, 
Say they no right have we the power divine 
To question, but hearts, when afflictions twine 

And grind them 'neath their tyrant feet alarm 
They take, and our poor tortured hearts do heed 

Not well just prudence in their selfish zeal — 
And through our blinding tears no meed — 

No good from such misfortune do we feel. 

'Tis hard to behold our fairest flowers 
Fade and die; still harder, O, evil hours, 
When unseen hands despoil us them. 
To no high tribunal have we recourse 
45 



For redress. To that hand, our only resource, 

A hand which promised to protect them — 
We cry aloud in anguish of the mind — 
With all efforts we try to be resigned. 

Resignation sometimes soothes our faint hearts. 
Weary in the toil of life's many parts, 

With soft, gentle, balmy fingers. 
Our buoyancy may be maimed and bound, 
But time can heal the deadliest wound. 

If stern death only from us lingers. 
We must all to the future look, and learn 
To murmur not at strange decrees. Tlio' burn 
Our desires we fulfill our lives and fall 
Into the groove marked by destiny for all 

Long, long before we were in being; 

Tho' in our varied gait on life's pathway 
We halt and often stumble, day by day. 
We may, the crown of gold far seeing 
High up in Heaven's orient skies, 
Be found among the busiest travellers 
Toward "the Bridge of Sighs." 

Written on the occasion of the death, by violence of 
my dearly beloved young nephew Clarence Coppock, 
(aged 5) caused by being thrown from a horse and 
crushing the bright and manly little head on the cruel 
ground. 

46 



IHnrequiteC). 

(written for the SUNDAY SENTINEL.) 

'Tis bitter pain to know that I 
Must give thee up, my pride, 

My brightest dreams to fade and die — 
To know I've lost a bride. 

'Tis hard to see his finger press 

Thy silky, auburn hair; 
To know that other lips caress 
Thy brow to me so fair! 

To feel that o'er my life's pathway 
Hope's ray can never shine — 
No loving hand to guard the day 
When life shall show decline. 

'Tis hard to know my brightest star 
Has vanished from my life; 

Ah! Death is welcome, better far 
Than weary, loveless strife. 

Yes, I nuist give thee up, my sweet, 
Thy lips have cast the dart 

That strikes me helpless at thy feet, 
And leaves a broken heart. 
47 



Cbastelar. 

(new YORK SATURDAY JOURNAL. > 

In a gorgeous, royal chamber, 

Draped with gold and silver sheen. 

Stood the fairest of the Marys — 
Mary Stuart, Scotland's queen. 

There before her stood a figure 

Swaying like a broken spar; 
Writhing under her just anger 

Is the Sicur de Chastelar. 

And the courtiers saw, when coming. 
By the light the one lamp gave, 

Scotland's queen, with finger pointing — 
Pointing at this wretched slave. 

And the queen, in royal anger, 

Said in words which checked their breath,. 
"Go! Bid Maitland fill the warrant; 
Chastelar is doomed to death!" 

"It is well," replied he calmly, 

"Lips I love pronounce my doom! 
Mary, for thee I die happy. 

And most gladly seek the tomb.. 

48 



"Wouldst but pity the offender, 

Whilst thou doometh the offense, 
I, thy lover, beauteous Mary, 
Ask no better recompense. 

**rd not save the life thus shortened, 
By the turning of a hand, 
For the crown of Bonny Scotland — 
Brightest crown in all the land. 

"Lead on, minions!" he commanded; 
Scotland's truest subject slay, 
Bowing low, then said to Mary — 
'Twas the last she heard him say — 

"Mary, Mary, beauteous Mary! 
Ah! I've loved thee from afar! 
Queen of Scotland, think hereafter 
Of thy slave, de Chastelar." 

And in many a mournful hour 

Bonny Scotland's widowed star, 

While the Queen dared not be thinking 
Mary thought of Chastelar. 
49 



Iff IF Mere l^ou, /IDiss. 

(a parody on "if I WERE YOU, SIR," IN 
harper's FOR APRIL, BY NORA PERRY.) 

If I were you, Miss, 

I would not do. Miss, 
As seems the style in these later days; 

I would not flirt. Miss, 

Or throw much dirt. Miss, 
As noodle-heads are wont, in plays. 

Yes, o'er my face, Miss, 

I'd own the grace, Miss, 
To hide the small stock of wisdom you possess, 

And assume a kind. Miss, 

That's hard to find. Miss, 
Wrapped in a lady's handsome dress. 

It's all very well. Miss, 
. For you to tell, Miss, 

Of authors that you have never read; 
But it's easy seen, Miss, 
That you have been, Miss, 

Reading authors that were better dead. 

Do you not think, Miss, 
As you sit in "kink," Miss, 
That honest folks despise a hypocrite? 
50 



Are you so dull, Miss, 
You think we gull this — 
Your senseless coquetries pass for wit? 

It does not fit, Miss, 

Our case a bit, Miss; 
Men never mean honesty with a flirt. 

Woman, if she can, Miss, 

Marries a man. Miss, 
But coquettes always marry a "squirt." 

If you will read, Miss, 

The verse with heed, Miss, 
You'll see it runs as nearly as it may 

That every man. Miss, 

Is sure to scan. Miss, 
The field before he takes a wife away. 

Then cease your advice. Miss, 

Woman is a prize, Miss, 
In any man's sight; flirts useless bits of clay 

For man to toy with. 

But fools enjoy with 
Their nonsense and folly, day after day. 
51 



Sing Boain the Sweet ®l& ^oms. 

(written for the SUNDAY SENTINEL.) 

Come, sing again the sweet old songs 

You used to sing to me, 
When we were wont to sail upon 

The moonlit summer sea; 
Oh, sing them for me now, my own, 

Though sad 'twill make me be. 
For well I know they ne'er will seem 

The same old songs to me. 

But sing them, sing again, my love, 

Yes, sing them o'er and o'er, 
Perhaps within their ancient lines 

I may see ghosts of yore; 
Yet while I know that ne'er again 

They'll seem the songs you sung 
While underneath the summer sky, 

When you and I were young. 

O, sing them now, my own, my love, 

Though years have long gone by 
Since lips were quick to frame the words 

Which gave such ecstacy; 
Although we may have older grown. 

Our hearts are still quite young, 
And nothing will more pleasure give 

Than songs we once have sung. 
52 



Then sing the old love songs again, 

Though eyes shall fill with tears, 
And heart-throbs come as fierce to me 

As when in by-gone years 
You sung those glorious melodies, 

That raised our hearts above, 
Though I've forgotten how to sing 

I ne'er forgot to love. 
53 • 



Goo^ as 6ol&. 

Lambent the dewy dawn, 
Over the fragrant lawn 
Softly the wand'ring breeze 
Tremulous makes the trees; 
Busy the honey bees 
Flower quest gone. 

See how the carrion crows 
Up in air whirling go; 
See how the swallows slip, 
All through the sunlight dip, 
Like the peak-sail of ship, 
When the wind blows. 

Build they their tenement 
And never pay the rent; 
Lender the over jet, 
With hair and earth that's wet 
And with soft feathers set. 
All nicely blent. 

There flits the cawing jay 
Fresh from his nest away; 
Hear him unwind his shout 
Like a fierce nearaljout, 
Glints his mate in and out. 

Over the way. 

54 



Out of the golden South, 
Like breath from baby mouth, 
Comes on the wind so fleet 
With soft and subtle treat 
Clover and roses sweet, 
No signs of drought. 

Grandma, this day of Spring 
Water-pot out doors brings. 
Pets for a summer day 
Spare time to while away, 
Believing a dainty spray 
Brightens the thing. 

Bobby, mischievous, bold. 
Plays pranks on grandma old, 
Lies on her pansy bed, 
Plucks all her roses red. 
Crowns for his curly head, 
Sweet-head of gold. 

'See the boy baby — fine, 
He's a great pet of mine; 
Now, Lord ! what will I do — 
He's cut my roses new; 
Young scamp '11 catch it — whew! 
Look at this vine. 
55 



"There's my chrysanthemum, 

child, what have you done?"^ 
"Danma, I tut your rose." 
"Yes, child, 'Danma' knows — 

Think I shall dust your clothes. 
You little one." 

Over the lawn he goes, 
Stumping his little toes, 
Pockets crammed full of stones, 
Old nails and chicken bones. 
Oh, my! what awful tones 
Burst from his nose. 

Long went the race and strife, 
Caught at last, fun arife, 
Now pleads young Bobby bold l 
"Danma, if you don't scold, 

1 will be good as gold, 

Rest of my life." 
56 



/IDv Barque an& IF. 

My barque I send far out to sea, 

Where everlasting summers reign, 
As proud as any Argosy. 

It ne'er returned to me again. 
Its dauntless sails extended wide. 

Fierce Passion's sun their whiteness burned- 
I never knew what fate betide, 

It went away, but ne'er returned. 

I sent it to the tropic isles 

Where luscious fruits and spices grow, 
And filled it well with tears and smiles; 

God-speed I bade it sailing go. 
It bore for me a cargo dear 

Across the ocean's fickle foam; 
It went away without one tear, 

But never yet has it come home. 

It bore away my fond desires, 

And earnest hopes, bereft of fears; 
Its tardiness with awful fires 

Has burned my heart these many years. 
For I ne'er saw my treasures more, 

Tho' all the charts of sounding sea 
I've traced and scanned unwearied o'er. 

But it comes never back to me. 
.57 



I said when fortune on me smiles, 

And smile it must, or hopes art vain. 
Somewhere among those vernal isles 

I'd find my barque upon the main; 
And home I'd bring my erring one, 

With freightage dear from out that sea. 
And 'neath a glorious, constant sun 

We'd rest, my precious barque and me. 

The wind was fair, the sea was wide, 

No storm was there, not e'en a cloud; 
I cannot see what should betide 

The barque that sailed away so proud. 
The sea — the eyes of sweetheart fair; 

The wind — the breath of sighing soul. 
Brings it not back, and I despair. 

What was my barque's ill-fated goal? 

And now all day I sit beside 

The ever restless, sounding sea. 
And watch the swelling of the tide 

Where it runs o'er the sands with glee. 
Full many a barque, like mine, was there, 

Sails past the point, and out to sea; 
They are the barques of other men — 

For mine no more comes back to me. 
' 58 



May ever, round the trackless sea 

God watcheth o'er this barque of mine, 
And in the great Eternity 

Bring it safe home to me in time. 
Beneath the lovely Southern Cross, 

No doubt its freightage, bondage free, 
Safe in the port, and without loss. 

This barque of mine is waiting me. 
59 



3f arc well. 

Farewell, farewell, the fervent pray'r 

Affection breathes shall still attend thee — 
That happiness may meet thee where 

Thy future destiny shall send thee; 
That cherub health may there be found 

Her blessing^s on her pinions bringing, 
And, smiling, hover thee around 

Upon thy head those blessings flinging. 

United in affliction's sway 

When stranger hearts to thee are given 
Forget not those who far away 

Regret that from them thou art riven; 
When treading on a foreign shore, 

Tho' friends as dear, as fond may greet thee, 
Forget not those who sigh once more 

In health and happiness to meet thee. 

And must thou, then, far distant dwell? 

My kindest thoughts attend thee thither; 
Our eyes must bid a long farewell, 

But memory shall waft thee hither; 
And when thy thoughts are backward flung 

Of scenes departed to remind thee. 
Wilt thou not think of me among 

The friends whom thou hast left behind thee?, 
60 



Oh, many's the time my heart has forljid 

That I raise and look 'neath the solemn lid 

Of the tomb of years that have happy been, 

I care not for; I look and look again, 

I faint in anguish at the ghastly sight, 

And shudder as I think of the awful night 

Of gloom "neath that lid of the Past, 

Where the robes of Joy lie wrapped in sleep 

Like the bleaching bones in the mystic deep. 

And dreary the days still roll along 

To a lonely heart like a funeral song; 

The echoes of happiness swell and break 

On the shores of a soul. Oh! shudder and quake 

And die. for surely 'twill last 

Forever and forever. 

61 



THE OLD HEARTH-STONE. 



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